


The Stairway to Heaven

by Rosethorn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Ace!Prussia, Ensemble Cast, Gen, It Makes Sense In Context, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, anything else would be spoiler, not sure if being a crossover automatically make it AU, or is it a fusion?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosethorn/pseuds/Rosethorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prussia did not survive dissolution and reunification unscathed.</p><p>------------------------------------------</p><p>Jack O'Neill thought that the former East German aviator and KGB conspirator would be easy to hate with the pale man being dropped onto his team without a by-your-leave from the president and a former commie to boot. Why did he have to see himself mirrored in those odd colored eyes; broken by past mistakes and willing to keep breaking himself if it meant that others were kept whole?</p><p>----------------------------------------</p><p>"I command you, Gilbert Beilschmidt, you who hold the soul of Prussia, live!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stairway to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Not the fic I thought I was going to do first. Sorry if you cry in the prologue, I cried writing it. It gets better in chapter one!  
> Also, while in SG: 1 Samantha Carter mentions it taking 15 years to make a dialing computer, I remember also watching something (I think it was the original movie) and they said two years of work, so I'm going with that for when the civilian side got back involved, if nothing else.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own anything, just admire

Germany, late winter/early spring, 1939

 

Dr. Paul Langford couldn’t help but give the General another long, awe filled look as his most loyal of soldiers, the majority of them officers and nobles, scurried about the dock to make sure that the cargo made it safely and securely on board the _Achilles_. His hair was so blonde it was more white than golden; it even looked silver at certain angles and at night! The man’s eyes were a strange mix between blue and red, often inspiring fear in those who do not know him as, depending how the light caught them; they could shine an eerie red. You could almost think the Prussian was an albino, but it was well known amongst the ranks (as the archeologist had been told in passing) that the General could get a tan; he was just rarely in a climate hot enough to induce it.

 

                Indeed, when the professor of archeology first caught sight of the deceptively young man in a rage after showing him his discovery nearly ten years before, he could not help but think that the man was more a vengeful ghost in his dark dress uniform than anything mortal born as the General ranted about human stupidity and demons. Even now Paul could not help but think the man was a legendary Grigori; a guardian angel bound to the land and its people, shedding its wings so that it may walk amongst man unhindered. How great must Prussia and its forbearers have been, to have born such a unique spirit?

 

                “Oi! We don’t have the luxury to be standing here and be thinking of our beds!” the General barked suddenly, jerking the archeology professor out of his musings. “Keep moving! And Doc, over here! You’re the one that said ye wanted to meet the ship captain!”

 

                Paul mentally shook himself at the half-truth (the General was the one that said it would be best if the two otherwise unconnected men knew each other’s face for security purposes, Paul had agreed) and began to move towards the General. Like the rest of the soldiers present, the General was dressed in regular laborer’s clothes with face and hair smeared with dirt and oil to detract from his noticeable features. They did not hide his eyes, though, so all the Gestapo needed to do to burst this whole operation open was for one of them to get close enough to catch his unique eyes. Why were they doing this in the daylight, again?

 

                “Doc, this be Ben Mitchell, Captain of the fair lady over yonder,” the bright eyed General drawled in a low class, heavily accented English, waving vaguely towards the _Achilles_. “I be figuring with all of the good captains around, the deciding factor had to be the ladies they’re working with. I have to say that Captain Mitchell’s lady seems good and strong for this task, don’t ya agree, Doc?”

 

                “I suppose so,” Paul agreed dubiously in the same language. The General had said earlier that the Lord had given him a sign that this was the ship and crew that would get the Door to Heaven safely to America; the archeologist was not about to doubt him over outward appearances. “I don’t really know ships that well.”

 

                “I guess I can relate,” the ship captain said. “Can’t say I understand the significance of a couple of stone tablets, but if you are sure about its value, I’ll believe you.”

 

                “Yes,” the doctor said nervously, “my colleague in America says that he may have something to help me work out the problems I’ve been having with the translations. Normally I’d invite him over here, but with climate being the way it has been lately…”

 

                “Yeah, can see why you’d want to head to a university not being geared up for war,” Mitchell said agreeably and turned away slightly. “I’ll be seeing you when I make it to port in the States then?”

 

                “Yes,” Paul confirmed, relieved to not being asked any more about what they were doing. “My family has already gone over, so all I needed to do was make sure that my research makes it across.”

 

                “Well, I will certainly do what I can,” Mitchel said seriously. “You sure everyone here is trust worthy? I heard that a lot of the folks in Kolberg were supporters of the man who doesn’t seem to like my home country much.”

 

                “And that’s why we ain’t working with the folks from Kolberg,” the general said cheerily, though his grin had too many teeth. “Now how about we be getting back to our jobs, ja?”

 

                Following the General as he led him back out of the docking area, it took the spacey archeologist a moment to realize that the deceptively youthful man had pulled him into an isolated corner away from the other men. “Stop with that look,” the General commanded. “You look like you want to be arrested for supposed treason. Where is that spitfire that thought I was a pompous bastard for vanishing off with your precious artifacts out of superstition?”

 

“Hiding from the reality that my home nation is marching to war again,” Paul answered truthfully before he could catch himself. “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean-”

 

“Yes you did,” the General interrupted. He sighed and slumped as though all the strength had left him. “It is hard to believe.”

 

“If this was just going to be over reparations, I might be able to believe it,” the archeologist continued. “But from things I’ve seen, from things you’ve said, I can’t help but wonder if is just a curse I brought home with me from Egypt or-”

 

“The problem started with things that happened long before your trip to Egypt,” the general waved off. “I should have acted on my gut instinct when I first smelled that man’s madness. Should have crushed him before he became my king in all but actual title. But my brother liked him, and the man had, for a time, seemed to genuinely care about my brother’s wellbeing. Now I can see the true depths of his depravity, and must hope that this endeavor will be successful.”

 

“Operation: Halo,” Paul said reverently. “Are you sure that we will be in time, General?”

 

“Hopefully I will come up with a way to fix this without relying on such questionable reserve forces,” the man said, eyes closed and body lax. “But my men and the poor children have already been sent out; my heart can still feel their determination, even if it is muffled like sound through cotton. All that is left is for you to get them back onto American soil so this Prussian Eagle can strike that bastard serpent from above where it no longer expects it. And stop calling me general; bastard will probably demote me soon. He dislikes how the majority of his officers will double check any plans with me rather than just listen to him if they spot me. Wonder if he knows that his darling boy does, too.”

 

“A sign of a foolish man, to not take free advice,” Paul muttered.

 

“Feel better?” the Prussian asked suddenly, one eye open lazily; the available light making his eyes seem violet. “’Cause loitering here much longer will likely get you in trouble at the airport.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the archeologist said. “I’ll be seeing you when Stage Two is over.”

 

The man grinned. “That’s the spirit!” he cheered, slapping a grimy hand against the archeologist's suit covered shoulder. “Not if, but when we are successful! Now you’re thinking like a proper soldier, boy-o! Give them bald headed loons my regards when you get there.”

 

“Will do, sir,” Paul said to the General’s retreating back. He allowed himself to indulge in one last look before heading off; knowing that the next time he saw the man, the General would be back in full military dress with sanity restored to their home land. The Prussian Spirit was immortal. Paul knew that man would live long into the future.

 

 

 

* * *

United States of America, February 26, 1947

 

Catherine Langford let herself into her father’s home. The past few years had been hard on the Langford family; the War, Catherine’s mother dying, father’s research inadvertently causing his colleague and her fiancé’s death, the War _ending_. The only good news, really, was that her sister’s own beloved made it home well enough to be married and, if what she last heard was right, had their first child on the way. But Catherine knew her father was only becoming more, and more depressed.

 

From what little she had managed to get out of the old man was that the people who had been involved in getting them out of the country with his research intact was a part of the resistance group that had attempted, and failed, to assassinate Hitler. Catherine took this to mean that he felt responsible for failing to contribute more to the war efforts when all of his allies back in their birth country had likely been executed or put into those horrid camps by that mad man. He was an archeologist; how was he supposed to do _more_? It wasn’t like he was one of the actual conspirators.

 

Perhaps it was a testament to how honorable her father was that he took this so hard, but Catherine just saw it as masculine stupidity. Sure, Catherine could no longer bring it to herself to try and find another to be her husband after Ernest’s death, but they were Americans now; they were free! Could he not see that? Could he not be happy to not be burdened by the past and the horrors revealed by their former home? Could he not rejoice in the fact that their new home accepted them with open arms because they saw the madness and did what they could to stop it?

 

In any case, checking in on her father was the least Catherine could do for him. Her studies into her doctorate may be nearly complete, which should make her father happy, but until then, there did not seem to be enough things to bring a smile to his face these days. Knocking on the door to her father’s study, Catherine poked her head in when there was no immediate response. The young woman could see her father sitting at his desk, chair facing a landscape painting of hills and forests near where he had grown up in Germany with a half full tumbler in his hand. On his desk sat two bottles of Teucke & Koenig Bärenjäger; one empty, one recently opened and significantly drunk through.

 

“Vater?” Catherine called gently. She was worried now if she hadn’t been before. Two days ago, when she last visited, that first bottle had been half full; they had shared a finger each after dinner. Her father only had one case of the sweet liquor that had been a going away gift from his friends in Germany and he did his best to ration the bottles; at first because they were in a country at war with the producers and then in case the spirits never made it into the U.S. after the War with all of these reconstruction decisions taking so long. There were not many bottles of them to begin with.

 

“Oh, Catherine, my dear,” her father slurred slightly in German, his head lolling to face her but otherwise not moving. “Have you been there long? I’m sorry child; I was lost in thoughts of home. Was there something in particular you needed?”

 

“Vater, how long have you been drinking?” Catherine asked boldly in the same language, marching confidently into the room. She was initially going to grab the tumbler from her father’s hand but stopped short when she noticed the tear tracks on her father’s face. “Has something happened? Vater what is wrong?”

 

“Ah,” her father sighed. His head lolled back towards the painting again. “Yesterday, a great man died. Or perhaps, he had died years ago but it was just admitted yesterday for me to hear.”

 

“I’m sorry, Vater,” Catherine said empathetically. “Is there something I can do?”

 

“Not now, no,” he said sadly. “I cannot help but think that if I had been successful; perhaps he would still be alive. Perhaps that old soldier would not have to have been so self-sacrificing for one who probably does not still deserved such loyalty.”

 

“Vater, you cannot think like that,” Catherine cried, moving to kneel at her father’s side. She clutched at her father’s free hand. “You tried, everyone tried. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of a mad man. Or the actions another man makes without your consent!”

 

“I suppose so,” the old professor said without conviction.

 

“Tell me about him, Vater,” she tried. “Tell me about your friend who died.”

 

“He was not really a friend,” her father corrected. “He was far too great a person to have friends so simply. But I admired him greatly, even if his history was riddled with bloody battlefields that would make most men weak at the knees. He did what he could for his countymen; even for us unworthy ones.”

 

“That sounds very lonely,” Catherine said, allowing that last comment to slide for the moment. “To be admired but not have anyone he was truly friends with that he could trust to speak with as an equal.”

 

“Perhaps you have a point, my dear,” her father corrected, perking slightly. “Perhaps that is why he took the bullet for him.”

 

“For who?” Catherine asked. “Who did he die for?”

 

“His younger brother,” Professor Langford answered. “That foolish child who thought Hitler would be the German people’s salvation.”

 

“Oh,” the young woman gasped, envisioning the scene. A conservative senior officer like her father would have associated with, if he had associated with any military men as friends as a rule, taking the responsibility of the younger sibling of a more junior position. With the masses wanting the blood of those at the top of the Nazi Reich, it would be easy for the actions of another man being placed upon one of a higher rank. “I’m sorry Vater. But there isn’t anything you can do about that now. What’s done is done. You cannot fret over what he chose to die for; just live knowing that he must have died happily in saving his brother. Perhaps this brother will prove himself redeemable; many of the people were deceived of depths of Hitler’s depravity. We will just need to wait and see.”

 

“You are right, of course, my sweet, intelligent Catherine,” her father said in what would probably have been a happy tone if he was not well passed being drunk. “There might not be anything for me to do, but perhaps you could do something for me after you finish your doctorate?”

 

“What is it, Vater?” she asked, worry gnawing at her stomach, but she pushed it aside for now.

 

“Will you pursue the Door to Heaven?” he asked fervently. “Will you make the United States government, years from now when politics calm, look back into my research? Look back into what went wrong? Correct the mistakes I made and make it work like it is supposed to?”

 

“Of course, Vater,” Catherine said apprehensively. “I was planning to help you with it, anyways. It should have been your crowning achievement as an archeologist. For it to have been dropped indefinitely and not even returned to you is practically a crime!”

 

“I am not worried about that, my dear,” her father said, patting her head as he stood like she was a child once more, siting by his knees looking over his findings. “Perhaps it is wrong of me, but I wish the world to know, no, I wish that man to know what his brother died for. The true depths of that man’s attempts to save his brother from his foolishness. I want the whole world to choke on the truth of the character of the man they had put to death for crimes he never committed!”

 

“Vater,” Catherine stuttered as she stood, frightened at his sudden shouting and swing of mood. She nearly regretted speaking when her father visible deflated again.

 

“I’m sorry my dear,” he sighed again. “Just promise me you’ll try to show the truth of my work.”

 

“Of course I will,” Catherine said with conviction, embracing her father in a loose hug. “We will figure it out together.”

 

After that night, her father’s mood did not get better. And, when two weeks passed and the police came to her home to speak of a car accident that killed her father, Catherine could not bring herself to be surprised. She knew with certainty that it was not an accident, but a suicide, when she learned that there were only two bottles of the Bärenjäger left; one each for her and her sister. The rest were empty and arranged around the items that had previously brought out a sense of national nostalgia to her father like a shrine; his will asking that all of those items be taken by whichever of his daughters would at least try to remember their birth country fondly from before it went bad. Catherine ended up taking them, even though she hardly felt that Germany, East or West as it would soon be divided, had any place in her heart to be home any longer.

 

She vowed that she would pursue the Door to Heaven. She would find out the truth of what truly killed her fiancé and father and show it to the world. No matter how long it took, Dr. Catherine Langford would succeed. It was only later that she realized that she never got a name for the man whose death was the last her father could handle.

 

 

 

* * *

Washington D.C., United States of America, Spring, 1993

 

President William Clinton looked across his desk at the older woman in front of him. The woman, Dr. Catherine Langford, Archeology, was made of steel; firmly holding his gaze without a hint of nervousness. In front of him were old files of “Project Giza”, a research project started in the nineteen forties after the U.S. entered the war and shelved not long before the end when a man was lost. The official reasoning was that there was a lab explosion, though the files seemed to indicate that ‘lost’ was what actually happened; though there was an explosion at the same time. Not having been an active participant, however, this woman wouldn’t know that.

 

“This project has been shelved for nearly fifty years,” the President said with a hint of incredulity. “My predecessor did not even know this project existed until you started to make some noise about it a few years ago. What made you wait till now to pursue continuing this project of your father’s?”

 

“The original goal of this project was to be used as a weapon against the Nazi’s controlling Germany,” the woman said calmly. “Before he died, my father asked me to use the weight of my doctorate to pursue the fullest truth of the Door to Heaven after the dust of the political strife from the sorting out of Germany was over so it would not be used as a weapon, only as a means of revealing the truth of the efforts of the German Resistance. He did not predict the Cold War. I used my judgment of his meaning to wait until such strutting ended before reminding our government of its existence. After all, we already have hydrogen bombs, did we need something potentially more destructive?.”

 

“Truly?” the President questioned. “When did your father die to no know of what would become the Cold War?”

 

“March, 1947,” she replied without a hint of grief, it was just a fact now.

 

“Still in the midst of sorting out Germany, indeed,” he said sympathetically. “East and West Germany had yet to be formally recognized yet. Did he say why he wanted you to pursue this? It killed your fiancé, did it not?”

 

“It did, and he did,” Dr. Langford answered. “My father grieved with me and never recovered; another nail on the coffin, I realized later. The final nail in the coffin was the knowledge of the death of a man my father greatly admired. I never got his name, but my father told me that he helped him get the Door to Heaven to the United States. Told me he was the one that thought to get the project to the U.S. before the Nazi’s caught wind of it. Told me that if the project had worked like he had believed it should, the truth of the man’s dedication to saving the German people and his brother from Hitler’s depravity would be known, and that it was the least that could be done to the man’s memory.”

 

The President frowned, and flipped open a few of the papers to see if there were any notes on this. But no, there were not any that he could see. “What had happened to this man, to have moved your father so much?” the president dug.

 

“He took the blame for his brother’s actions under the Reich, or so I was led to believe,” the woman answered. “He was the older, wiser brother who did not trust what Hitler was saying. His brother thought Hitler was to be the German people’s salvation and had followed blindly. Without names I could not check the facts. But if he is still alive, I would like to think he would recognize the project as his brother’s work and know that his brother really had tried everything to save him.”

 

“He died for him,” the President pointed out. “Would that not speak for itself?”

 

“Perhaps,” the doctor agreed. “But my father also expressed a desire for the world to choke on the truth of the man they executed unjustly. That would take a bit more evidence.”

 

“Hm.” The president contemplated the project files in front of him.  There was a lot of potential with the project, if nothing else. “I would need to speak to my advisors before I can make a final decision. If we conclude that we should revive the program, would you like to see your father’s team's notes?”

 

“Not immediately,” Dr. Langford answered. “I would like the opportunity to start from scratch outside of my father’s journal, which holds archeological notes rather than detailed scientific equations. I would not want my team held down by dated scientific thought.”

 

“Of course, a perfectly sound scientific principle,” the President agreed. He stood and held his hand out for the woman to take. “I will be sure to contact you again after I speak to everyone I must to make a final decision.”

 

“Of course, Mr. President,” the woman said, standing and accepting his handshake. “Until next time, then.”

 

Once the woman left the President had an aid sent after his nation’s personification. He heard from his predecessors that the man-child could be serious and genuinely terrifying; like one would expect of the personification of the world’s greatest super power. This president, however, had yet to see it as anything other than a fount of historical facts that might say something useful every once and a while. It was certainly easier to listen to than trying to pry its diary out of its hands. _Presidential_ Book of Secrets, ha!

 

“Yo! Boss man! What’s up?” the personification of the U.S.A, or better known as Alfred F. Jones, said cheerfully as it entered the room.

 

Giving his nation a patient smile, the President waved it to a chair. “America, thanks for coming so quickly.”

 

“No problema, man!” it said as it dropped into the chair. “Tony and I were just looking through the recent patents, so it was nothing critical. Finally being back in a peace time is _nice_.”

 

The President nodded; it might not be as glorious as winning a war, but leading economic growth would still be a nice achievement. “There are those that agree with you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Dr. Catherine Langford, daughter Dr. Paul Langford; both archeologists originally from pre-war Germany though Catherine Langford obtained her doctorate here after the whole family had relocated here early 1939,” the President read from his predecessor’s note. “During the war, Dr. Paul Langford had worked on a “Project Giza” that was supposed deliver our war-time military a significant weapon that was centered on his research and archeological findings.”

 

“Was this based on a series of objects that had been found in the named region?” the personification asked, its face unusually focused. “With atypical runic figures?”

 

“Yes,” the President confirmed, mildly surprised that the being remembered such a minor, failed project from such a hectic time period. Then again, archeology was still one of the being’s favored subjects. “You remember the project?”

 

“Sort of,” America answered with a shrug. “I more remember Dr. Langford’s push to work on the project immediately in light of assurance that war was imminent in Europe and we needed to be prepared. None of my bosses at the time wanted to concern themselves with a weapon for a war that had yet to even start. It’s a shame, really. I wondered what would have happened if Prussia had been able to talk to them himself after all of the people and objects he arranged for the project to make it over here; if the war would have ended cleaner than it did?”

 

“What do you mean by that?” the President asked, his voice firming with confusion.

 

“Ah, well,” the nation said with visible embarrassment. “It’s one of those things that doesn’t get mentioned in history books because knowledge of us personifications are generally considered top secret and not for public knowledge; but Prussia is one of the reasons why so many of Germany’s top scientist that were known dissenters of Hitler made it out and safely into the U.S. during the thirties. Not all of them knew his status as a personification, but with his characteristics it was not hard to piece together. Dr. Langford was different in that Prussia himself actually contacted me about him and his work and how it would benefit my potential war efforts in the worsening political conflict. By the time the war did roll around, I was either working on the Manhattan Project or working with the Allied Nations on the war effort so I don’t know the details of Project Giza.”

 

“Really?” the President said, allowing all of his surprise to be heard. “Why did my predecessors ignore the recommendation then? I know you nations can get yourself into some seemingly ridiculous situations when allowed to freely react to each other; but from what I’ve observed, educators and military success were the core of Prussia’s being as a Nation. I do not think that Prussia would have just mentioned something like that as a joke if he was putting so much effort to avoid his own government.”

 

“You have to understand,” America defended, “we were still recovering our economy after the depression. There was a fear that it was a Nazi ruse to distract me, myself, from active political ventures because it was well known that I had a tendency to get obsessed with any archeological find I was a part of and slack on important issues because I got too engrossed in the past that I forgot about the future simply _because_ Prussia was serious about those sort of things. If Prussia had been able to get in contact with our military intelligence, he probably would have been able to convince them of its direness; but the only records of our conversations were some of our early letters that talked about Dr. Langford’s value as a Professor and how current political environments were suffocating some of Prussia's more liberal minded educators and ‘would you please keep him and the others safe till things are calm again?’. Just things that wouldn’t get flagged too much by Hitler’s minions while giving a legitimate reason for why the Langford family was leaving ‘temporarily’. The rest was through a network of Prussians that came through _Canada_ to speak to me.”

 

“Did he ever mention what it was Paul Langford was asked to do?” the President asked. Everything pointed to the artifact being a stable portal generator; the possibilities of that if there was actual precedent….

 

“Just something about ‘a dream that mortal men could traverse the stairway to the heavens’,” America said sadly. “Prussia actually drank to Dr. Langford’s death when he learned of it before the Curtain went down after he had asked after the archeologist to me. None of us could get out what he meant by that, though. Russia said he had even threatened to lock Prussia’s bird in an iron box and throw her into the Pacific if he didn’t tell what it was the project was supposed to do, but he had just sat there mournfully without any other reaction so Russia dropped it. Why are you asking about it now?”

 

“It appears that Dr. Paul Langford entrusted his aspiration for the project to be completed during the calm of peace time, when it could be investigated outside the narrow focus of wartime efforts, to his daughter, Dr. Catherine Langford,” the President explained. “I just finished meeting with her. She spoke that it was her father’s aspiration to make known to the world the moral character of the man who got them out of Germany by pursuing the true nature of the project he risked his life preventing the Nazi regime from acquiring. Apparently, she did not know the identity of the man who got her family out of Germany and her father died before East Germany was even informally established and so died thinking that Prussia was dead. She made a rather moving statement about it.”

 

The personification nodded its head in agreement. “I can understand that ideal,” America said solemnly. “Just think of what the world would be like if nuclear physics was first pursued during a true peacetime? We’d have a world full of nuclear generators rather than nuclear bombs.”

 

The President blinked at the unusually profound statement from his nation. “Would you give your recommendation to the project, then?” the president asked. “Dr. Catherine Langford desires to start from scratch except for the notes in her father’s journal, so she won’t be working from a flawed, potential weapon stand point. She'll likely need clearence to our top scientists; even our military ones.”

 

“Certainly,” America said with a nod, its voice returning to its normal buoyant levels. “It would be nice to see what Prussia’s original plan was.”

 

“Do you think Gilbert will be able to provide us with any other information regarding the project?” the President asked seriously. “I know you said he wouldn’t talk about it back when he was Prussia-”

 

“No,” the personification said firmly, its face stricken at the reminder of its broken fellow. “He won’t remember. It’s a miracle that he still exists, let alone remembers us at all. You might be able to get him to blurt things that were not common knowledge or top secret from any time before German reunification, but he just will think he read it somewhere or dreamed it. Maybe, when the project past its initial stages, Gilbert might be able to instinctively make the process smoother; but until there is an accurate frame work of Prussia’s original idea, making Gilbert help on it will only make him confused. I’d have him shipped back to Germany before I let anyone do that to him on purpose.”

 

And the president did not want that. The German government might have been willing to let their second national personification slip through their fingers, but Clinton knew better. His predecessor might have initially accepted the broken personification as a charity; guiltied into accepting the new man by America pointing out all the things Prussia had done for their country before its fall. This President, however, had seen the fruit of that charity. Perhaps, as far as nations were concerned, the man that was once Prussia was a broken shade of himself; never to be as great as he once was, slowly marching towards his death bed with a whimper rather than a bang. But as a human, Gilbert Beilschmidt was an exceptional soldier, if a bit crazy.

 

He maintained all of his skills that he had learned himself while a nation (which was a surprisingly high number; evidently Prussia really had stood by the value of educating oneself). His combat reflexes still retained the ease of one who has been in conflict almost constantly for a thousand years. He could still plan a military campaign like he breathed air. And, probably most amazingly of all, he flew planes like a bird. The president wondered if the Prussian had intentionally crippled East Germany and the Soviets by not providing the nuggets of knowledge he bandied about with the technicians today as though they should be commonsense.

 

What mattered to the President, though, was that the man was super human and a soldier by desire. If the President wanted what was left of the nation to go on what would otherwise be a suicide mission, Gilbert Beilschmidt would happily do so with the full intent of returning to preform another one. It was the National Personifications, bound by unusual sentiment considering the cause of the former Nation's state, who were the ones who balked at the thought of their former member, weakened and closer to mortality as he was, in harm’s way. Germany would lock him away like a priceless glass figurine, Italy would coddle him if he did not place him in a monastery, Spain and France would turn him into a lazy and lecherous bum. No, it was best that the American Government and the President kept a hold of the former Nation lest Russia, who the President recognized as the only actual Nation to realize the former nation’s continued value, use him instead. The President wondered how many of the Nations noticed that Gilbert still was not aging as fast as he should as a human, even if there has been some visible aging since Reunification.

 

“Of course,” the President told his Nation. “I will let you know how the project progresses and if I decide that our Captain Beilschmidt would be better suited to be transferred over to the renewed Project Giza after the initial stages.”

 

The Nation nodded. “Thank you sir,” America said with a hint of true gratitude. “I’m going to get back to going through the patents. I’ll make you a list of the ones that Tony thinks are truly viable.”

 

The president nodded absently as the Nation left his office, his mind already on what would be necessary to restart Project Giza. A secure location; perhaps an already existing one that is no longer being fully utilized now that the Cold War has ended? And a general with the right priorities; Major General West just requested domestic command in light of his wife’s surprise pregnancy. Perhaps he would be willing to babysit some civilians if he told him the project was originally a plan by the German Resistance that fell through on the U.S. end. If he remembered right, General West had an uncle of some sort who was a member and was executed by Hitler’s sweep after the July 20th Plot….

 

 

 

* * *

SGC, United States of America, February 15, 1997

 

General George Hammond had known not arguing more with the President was going to bite him. The Major he had commanded to start as a member of SG: 1, German exchange officer Major Gilbert Beilschmidt, PhD. Military History (German/Prussian) and Theology, was like a fun house mirror version of Colonel O’Neill. While Beilschmidt would hold the rank _Oberstleutenant_ of the _Bundeswher Luftwaffe_ if he was home in Germany, it was hinted in his file that if he returned, he’d be retired at that rank and not be permitted to remain in the military, or even fly under a civilian licence. Honestly, General Hammond had to agree with the Germans even if he could see from that the young man’s file that he was still a good soldier, perhaps even a good commander; but what a mess!

 

From what was given to the U.S. of the Major’s service record before becoming an exchange officer of the U.S. A.F., the man had been the equivalent of a Black Ops Officer of the _Luftstreitkräfte der Nationalen Volksarmee_ of Soviet controlled East Germany with ties to the KGB. While the man was a top notched pilot (evident with his ability to fly American craft now), his records showed that Beilschmidt worked more the political side of things rather than taking part of any active antagonistic force. He was attributed by numerous Allied Intelligence Officers and Aids to have been instrumental to the fall of Communism in the Bloc as well as the peaceful reunification of Germany. It was for such reasons that the man was offered a job with the U.S. Air Force as an exchange officer when his injury had slated him to be discharged from the armed forces of the newly reunified Germany.

 

The injury was one that the old general could not help but see as somewhat symbolic on the surface and horrifying underneath. On November 9, 1989, the off duty Gilbert Beilschmidt heard of the opening of the borders between East Berlin and West Berlin and rushed to the wall. Some years previously, perhaps the goal of such a liberal minded man selling himself to communism, the younger brother of the _Luftstreitkräfte_ officer had been sent over to attend university in West Berlin. Upon graduation, the young man made leeway’s into the West German government and began working to achieve his older brother’s goals of reunifying Germany as a democracy; staying in West Berlin and not seeing his brother since leaving to attend university with their only contact with each other through phone calls and mail. This night, the two brothers would finally be reunited without fear of retribution.

 

By the time that Gilbert Beilschmidt arrived at the wall, his younger brother, Ludwig Beilschmidt, was waving to him from the top of the wall with other West Berliners. It was up there that the two brothers met and embraced each other for the first time in years, and it was there that the two were met with tragedy. With all of the antics being done on the Wall, it is no surprise that there would be accidents. Ludwig Beilschmidt slipped and began to fall off the wall; Gilbert Beilschmidt lunged, twisting himself to cushion his brother with his own body, cracking his own head open against the hard ground below.

 

In the intervening months where the rest of Germany celebrated the joy of no longer being separated, the Beilschmidts were in a West Berlin hospital; one in a comma with no hint if he would ever wake, the other praying that he would. Eventually, the older man did wake up, but his mind was in shambles. The best explanation that psychologist could manage was that while his brain was healing, the centers for his episodic memory and semantic memory got woven together while dreaming; interposing his own experiences and acquaintances over his own knowledge of German/Prussian history to the point that it was almost easier to recall the dreams of what happened, rather than actual events with the German referring to the whole of his memory from before the accident as “burry”. These "blurry" memories did not pursist after he woke up and his short term and long term memory was deemed okay, with his procedural memory unaffected.

 

While this ultimately meant that the young German was fully functional, it also meant that he started life as a citizen of a Unified Germany a very disoriented man. If asked about something from his time in black ops, the man would hit and miss what actually happened and was classified, the official story, and what he dreamed up if he tried to actually respond accurately. Those dreams had appearently decided that people he previously only knew as colleagues were actually cousins and had a hard time differentiating the truth of his relationships with everyone he knew before the accident. Except for his brother, who was his brother. He teetered between thinking that he had more command experience than the whole of the Joint Chiefs of Staff combined and the confidence from it and being meek and uncertain of his own shadow. The psychological reports from the most recent years showed improvement in the stability of the Major’s mind, with praises for how continued familial, friendly, and colleague support had provided enough of a base for the German to rebuild himself and his confidence; permitting the recent promotion from Captain to Major.

 

Only a portion of this psychological profile was going to be released to his lower command officers; the German born Major has an odd form of Post-Traumatic Stress due to mostly recovered head injury, leaving the rest of the details for the German to reveal, or not, at his own digression. Though this fact did not even register to the vey irate Colonel.

 

“What do you mean the President has already decided that some East German Commie has been assigned to my team?” O’Neill railed. “How is this a better solution than having Teal’c on my team?”

 

“East Germany doesn’t exist anymore, Colonel,” George corrected firmly. Why didn’t the President take a better look at the Colonel’s service record? “Beyond which, despite his former occupation, all parties agree that he was a major behind the scenes contributor to the peaceful reintegration of the two German peoples and ultimately the breakdown of the Iron Curtain. As such, he has proven himself in the eyes of the world to be a trustworthy decision maker in regards to global peacekeeping.”

 

“Trust worthy?” O’Neill gaped. “This is about trust worthiness? How am I supposed to trust a guy I probably shot at not too long ago over someone who picked me over a _god_?”

 

“You’ll have to work that out amongst yourselves,” the general answered. “The President told me that in order to preserve our cover, the SGC is going to absorb the duties of an infantile, U.N. sponsored, Satellite research and listening team that would manage a network across the globe in the event of alien invasion by spaceship that had been cleared to start development this past year. The U.N. will let the United States handle all things involving extraterrestrials if and only if there is someone they find trust worthy keeping an eye on the project. The President also has trust in the man, who only continues to have the right to keep flying military grade jets because the U.S. offered him a spot in our Air Force when two full Air Forces merged and no longer had the space for him and has willingly given information that would benefit our Air Force on the whole, to keep the full scope of our operation a secret in order to preserve international stability.

 

“If he works best elsewhere in the SGC, fine, we’ll make the change. No harm, no foul,” General Hammond said. “But the President has ordered me to make an honest attempt to put Major Beilschmidt on our flagship team as a diplomatic representative and as insurance for our country.”

 

“You mean to keep him from snitching to the Nazi’s back home,” the Colonel snarked.

 

“Back up, Colonel, that was out of line,” the General barked. “If anything, this arrangement is so that this man will take the fall instead of us.”

 

The colonel blinked with startled confusion. “What do you mean?” O’Neill asked warily.

 

“The President is sure that Major Beilschmidt will keep our silence over telling his younger brother in the Chancellor’s office of what is going on here,” George said resignedly. “A brother he nearly died for before _and_ after he got him into a college in Western Berlin, while the Wall was still holding strong, where he got the connections to get their current positions. A brother who would likely suffer more than Major Beilschmidt would from the political ramifications of this perceived betrayal if the Major did not step in and take full responsibility immediately after it leaks.”

 

“That’s, kind of harsh,” O’Neill admitted.

 

“That’s politics,” George agreed. “And it is a game Major Beilschmidt is willing to play to keep everyone he is friends with, East and West, safe from alien threat.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m going to like him,” O’Neill warned.

 

“I’m not asking you to,” the general said. “Just avoid starting World War III when he arrives with Colonel Kennedy.”

 

“I’ll certainly try to keep it to Cold War II,” the colonel said dryly. “I’m going to see Teal’c; make sure he knows we’re normally not this restrictive to our allies.”

 

The General saluted the Colonel out. George sighed when he was alone again, pulling out the full file of the exchange officer once more. Really, who was this man to let himself be used so by Nation’s not his own?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure If chapter 1 should cover the whole of the second episode, or be broken into smaller pieces. I only did this chapter so large because it only makes sense if it all comes out at the same time.
> 
> Bärenjäger- a honey based hard liquor that is claimed to have originated from early Prussia. Teucke & Koenig is the only named manufacturer I can find so I'm sorry if they didn't exist before WWII (I haven't read anything thing that says they hadn't existed until afterwards, at least).
> 
> yes, I know that Oberstleutenant is Lieutenant Colonel in German and not Major; that was the point. I'm not translating the rest because I got everything else from Wikipedia trying to get the right facts of the Cold War era that ended just before I was born.
> 
> Since it is assumed that Bill Clinton is the first president involved with the SGC, I am using his full name to differentiate from 'reality' president Clinton with 'alter' president Clinton.
> 
> Message me if you have any questions that do not involve asking for updates, I'm still trying for every two weeks, though it might be three.


End file.
